


Leather Jacket, Seven O' Clock

by Bauliya



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Fuck the timeline, Healthy Relationships, Light BDSM, M/M, Minor Character Death, Suicide, Teacher-Student Relationship, casefic, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-12-23 20:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bauliya/pseuds/Bauliya
Summary: Dean Winchester and Tony Stark meet before life fucks them over, fall in love, and a gain a support they have no idea how desperately they need for their tumultuous future.Disclaimer: on hiatus.





	1. Nameless Attractive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where first meetings happen.

Before anyone can say anything, Tony Stark exits the class. He can tell few of the students expected him to stay back, and were disappointed when he didn’t, but it wasn’t him they should’ve been upset with. 

It’s the man in worn leather jacket, sitting in the last row.

* * *

The drink is already half gone when he realises that the cool liquid wasn’t accompanied by a familiar burn. He looks at Rhodey accusingly, ‘Switching someone’s drinks is _low._ ’

‘And showing up hungover on your first day is bad work ethic, _professor._ ’ 

‘Great, maybe they won’t make me do this if I’m exceptionally shitty at it.’ 

Rhodey smiles, ‘C’mon, Tony. You’re shaping the next generation! Molding minds! You should be proud.’

‘Shaping th—I’m their goddamn age, Rhodes!’ He exclaims, for maybe the dozenth time since he’d received his assignment. They’d given it to him after many, many rounds of negotiation. An undergraduate course with a limited capacity of students and minimum classes with semi-flexible timings. He’d thought he’d come out on top when he had realised that most of the students were Mech.E second years.

To be fair, he _had_ said no first years. 

‘You know what I mean.’ 

The bar’s uncharacteristically near vacant, but then again it’s the first time he’s been here on a Sunday night and the staff seems more relaxed and fewer in number, so he supposes it’s the norm for this time of the week, and feels dumb for not realising earlier because he came here for the din of the crowd and the press of bodies and maybe someone nameless and attractive, he came here for _distractions_ , not Rhodey reminding him of tomorrow and the click of pool balls in the background. 

The music changes. It’s Ramble On, he realises after humming the first few lines unconsciously. Tony turns to the Jukebox, to cheer at the stranger with the excellent music taste and—

Oh.

One out of three isn’t too bad. 

‘Tony, no.’ 

‘You don’t even—‘ 

‘Leather jacket, seven o’clock,’ Rhodey says. 

‘But he likes Zeppelin,’

He sighs, leans away again to look at him. Tony pointedly stares behind the counter while he does, ‘..alright. But he should live close.’

Tony grins and turns and sees Leather Jacket, Seven O’Clock, sauntering towards them. Unplanned but exciting. He’s usually the one doing the sauntering. 

‘Saw you lookin’ at me,’ Jacket says, sidling up to his side, ‘Lemme get you a drink?’

His voice is deeper than he had expected, ‘Ah, no. No alcohol for me. Early morning,’ 

He nods, ‘Alright, then.’

‘Let me,’ he immediately says, and regrets it, ‘get you a drink. I mean. If you want,’ He can feel Rhodey snickering at his side. Jacket just smiles and nods. Tony orders something, he must have, because the suddenly the man has a glass in his hand. 

‘Dean Winchester,’ 

‘Tony Stark.’

Winchester pauses, considers. His face is quite expressive. Tony tell he doesn’t say the first thing he says, or the second, ‘How do—‘ his voice lowers a bit, ‘How do fake ID’s work when the bartender knows you’re underage?’ 

He laughs, ‘Two words, buddy. Older friends,’ 

‘Yeah. Yeah, l suppose your friends tend to be… older,’ he says, and drinks. Dean shifts a little closer. They don’t speak, and he doesn’t feel the urge to fill their silence with words. When the song’s about to end, they both turn to look at the jukebox, to see if someone approaches. They don’t. Dean gets up first but Tony chooses the next track and going by his beaming smile, he knows he chooses the right one. They talk. They keep talking. His gaze only wanders once to check up on Rhodey and he isn’t there. He decides to apologise later. 

Dean was born in Lawrence, is from Omaha, but grew up all over the place. He likes classic cars. That makes Tony perk up and go off in a tangent about the ones he’d restored back home and Dean listens, all rapt attention, before pointing out to a Chevy Impala in the parking lot and telling him a story about when it broke down in the middle of nowhere and he had to drive it for almost eighty miles with the engine held together by wire and shoelace and his brother’s prayers. By then their arms are linked. 

It’s dark when they head out and Dean tells him how he misses the stars from back home and Tony tells him about how he meticulously replicated the night sky with glow in the dark ink on his dorm room when he was ten and Winchester actually looks upset when he says, no, he doesn’t have pictures. 

He kisses him right afterwards. 

What he remembers the most is how gentle Dean is with his hands, hands that cradle his head and curl around his body almost reverently and how when he pushes him against the door of the Chevy, he lets him. His jacket is soft and worn, oversized.  
'This—‘ Tony whines when he pulls away, and leans up. Dean stills him with a hand on his chest, 'This’ll be easier with a bed,' He says, touching their foreheads together, 'Yours or mine?'

Mine. Tony wants to say mine. Dean probably lives in a shared dorm and his flat has the material he requires for his classes, not to mention the _clothes_ , but that would mean taking a Nameless (not really) Attractive (oh definitely) back _home_ and that doesn’t happen, shouldn’t happen so he says.

'Yours.'

Dean nods and extracts himself. He misses his heavy warmth. Tony settles in the passenger seat, staring out the window and trying to ignore Dean and the embarrassing bulge in his pants. 

Dean’s hand curls around his knee, stilling it, ‘I live close,’ he reassures, slipping his hand up his thigh and Tony wants to groan. He can’t help but look at his lap, where Dean’s fingers are settled. His ring glints in lamp lights. They’re wonderfully and hatefully an inch away from his crotch and unmoving.

It takes a painstaking ten minutes. 

Luckily, his room’s on the ground floor. Dean fumbles for the lights and Tony isn’t helpful at all, pressing his knee against his crotch and kissing him wetly. Revenge is warm and smells of motor oil. 

The lights are finally lit and Dean now kisses him back just as eagerly, nudging him towards the bed until his shins hit furniture and then Dean pushes him down, moves to straddle him and the pressure on his cock, which is already throbbing like a bruise, is too much. He thrusts against him. Dean lets up and pants, hand reaching to the counter, 'You want—' something knocks over, 'Top or bottom?'

Tony digs his fingers his flesh, 'Top.' 

He feels Dean shudder, ‘Okay.’ 

Dean gets the lube and condoms, kisses him again and gets off. Tony takes off his underwear and jeans as soon as he is able, Dean does the same. He turns to look at him, and pauses. Stares. 

Dean Winchester is beautiful. 

Their eyes meet and Dean raises an eyebrow. Tony’s tongue fails to find a response so just settles for kissing, his fingers dragging across his shoulders, then arms, and wrists, until he feels the cool plastic of the lube and takes it. 'C’mon, cowboy, belly down,'

'Sir, yes, sir.' 

Tony preps him. Dean tells him to stop way earlier than he’d like to and he falters, but Dean reassures him it’s fine, he likes it a little rough, a wink in his voice. Tony bites his shoulder muscles as he sinks in. 

It’s a struggle to stop himself from coming immediately. 

He gives him time to settle and tries to drag it on, because the _noises_ Dean makes are sinful, but they’re also what pushes him over embarrassingly quickly.  
Dean comes a few minutes later, sounding like he’s choking and so deep in his throat that he can’t even taste him.

* * *

So, one can imagine, seeing him walk into class next morning, wearing that same jacket, was.. an experience. At least took a seat near the end. 

Not that it helped matters much.

* * *

'I swear, it just said Stark. I assumed it meant your father.' 

'That’s not that much better.' 

Dean shrugs, 'Hey, I realised who you were after l’d strutted over the damn bar, l couldn’t just bail,’ he says, ‘woulda been awkward.’ 

And seeing Tony walk into the class and head for the desk _facing_ the class hadn’t been awkward at all, he thinks. They’re sitting on the roof of the mech.E workshop and, under different circumstances, Dean would’ve appreciated the view. He hadn’t expected Tony to call him, especially after That Class. 

‘Look, I’m thinkin’ of dropping the course anyway…’ 

Tony crosses his arms, ‘Really?’ 

‘Yeah, not like I can focus on the thermodynamics of carbon composites with you constantly bitin’ down on pencils.’ 

‘You’re calling me sexy, Winchester?’ 

Dean leans in. He hadn’t realised just how close they’d been standing before that, ‘I’m callin’ you a tease.’ 

His eyes are dilated. Tony breathes deeply for a bit, Dean can see he has a similar response on the tip of his tongue, but it wasn’t: 

‘This was not the point of this meeting, stop diverting my attention.’ 

Dean blinks, backs off. ‘Alright, hotshot,’ he says, ‘What was the point of this meeting?’ 

‘I don’t know!’ he says, ‘It’s.. confusing.’ 

‘Confusing how?’ 

‘I want to see you again.’ 

So does Dean. Hell, he’s giving up a spot on a very coveted course, and that has to count as something, but he only met him yesterday and he doesn’t really see their relationship going any further. 

But he's already hoping it does. 

‘Give me your number,’ Dean says, ‘I’ll… call you.’


	2. Plymouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they finally go on a date and Dean acts suspicious.

Tony waits.

Tony waits for three days. 

Tony waits for three days, right up until he’s halfway through his second class and realises that no, Dean is not going to slip in, apologetic and in his pyjamas, and somehow finishes his planned lecture but can’t answer the few students that linger afterwards because he’s sure if he’s confronted by someone right now, it would be obvious that it was not carbon composites on his mind.

‘I’m not moping.’ 

Rhodey gives him a look. They’re having breakfast, or at least he’s having breakfast, Tony’s staring into his cereal. Rhodey broke in this morning (or could you break in if you had a key?) and found Tony finishing his third paper in a row since midnight, eyes bloodshot. His flat’s his father’s choice, but he’s made adjustments. Tony sleeps in the smallest bedroom and uses the master bedroom as his lab, with the wall between the main room and the bathroom knocked down. 

He turned the other room into a library when Rhodey refused taking it for the twelfth time, saying he preferred to stay campus and did not like handouts. 

‘I’m not sayin’ you are,’ he said, ‘But you either need to call this Winchester fella, or get over him and live your life.’ 

‘Why _won’t _he call, though? He’s not even my student anymore! It’s not creepy! Or do you think that I came on too strong? Fuck, I came on too strong, didn’t I?’ he says, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes, ‘Or what if–what if the whole Stark thing scared him off? What if he’s like, the opposite of a gold digger?’__

‘A viable boyfriend?’ 

Tony glares.

‘Look, buddy, he knew who you were the first time. He would not have slept with you if he had a problem. And why can’t you call him?’ 

‘Because he _said_ that _he_ would call _me_ and I do not want to come off as a stalker.’

Rhodey sighs. 

‘Look, you wait another day, how bout that, and then you call him? And if he doesn’t wanna continue this, well, too bad. Now eat your frosted flakes.’ 

Rhodey stays for a few more hours, orders his groceries for him and they watch a movie whose plot, dialogue or characters Tony doesn’t register, and then leaves for a class. Tony decides to take the day off. 

He nearly short circuits a motor he was testing when his phone rings. He lowers his expectations before checking the screen.

Caller ID:

_Leather Jacket._

His hands are shaky as he picks up.

Dean says something lacking punctuation.

‘What?’

‘Go out,’ Dean says, forcing himself to be slow. Tony can hear someone exclaim in the background, ‘With me. This fri—‘ 

‘Six PM, I’ll pick you up,’ he says, his heart thinking he has just run a marathon.

‘See ya,’ he says, and the phone clicks. 

If Tony smiles into his palms for an embarrassingly long time, there is no one to see it.

* * *

If Dean had a larger wardrobe, he would’ve taken his time going through every half-decent outfit but, luckily, his range of half-decent outfits isn’t exactly wide. 

He wears his own leather jacket this time. It’s tan, and fitted, a graduation present from Bobby, and probably the nicest thing he owns. 

Tony shows up exactly at six which makes Dean wonder if he’d been waiting outside the door. That’s okay, because he had been sitting on his bed, completely dressed, for at least fifteen minutes. 

His face breaks into a grin as soon as he opens the door and Dean’s chest feels warm.

‘Hey, hotshot.’

‘You look. You look really good.’ 

Dean shifts his feet, ‘Uhh, thanks,’ he says, caught off-guard though this a date, ‘You too.’ Clever, Winchester. He hasn’t even seen his clothes yet, hasn’t managed to look away from his face, ‘Where we goin’?’

Tony takes his hand and Dean immediately entwines their finger,. Squeezes. Pulls him closer. ‘You’ll like it. C’mon. We’re taking your car.’ Dean drives, and Tony gives direction. They’re leaving campus, which is to be expected, but not going towards the market district, which is not.

It’s a racing track. 

It sounds empty. 

They enter. 

It is. 

‘Son of a bitch.’ 

Dean walks on the tarmac, eyes wide and fingers already itching for his wheel. Tony watches him, eager for his reaction but already regretting his decision, ‘Do you—do you like it?’

‘Like, Tony—this. Oh fuck,’ He begins to laugh, loudly, bracing himself by his hand on his knees. It echoes in the empty stadium. He _rented out a stadium_ for him. He had no idea individuals could even _do_ that, though he supposed that money was money. ‘What, you didn’t fly in any sportscars?’

‘Um, I—‘ 

‘Tones. I was kidding.’ 

He deflates, ‘Right. Of course you were.’ 

Dean hops in his car, Tony follows. It’s _amazing_ , he’s never driven so freely, not even on the empty stretches between mid-western states during off-seasons, and Tony enjoys himself almost as much. He gets the hang of the shape of the track after a few laps and speeds up, heart hammering against his ribs and stops after a dozen laps.

The tyres screech. He smells the rubber burn. 

Dean’s completely breathless, his diaphragm aches, so do his cheeks but he can’t stop smiling. He turns and looks at Tony. His expression is so fond that he can’t help but surge towards him and press their lips together.

‘Tony. Tony. Tony,’ he says, between kisses. 

‘Mm, l hear ya, Dean,’ He wraps his arm around him. 

They settle like that, pressed together, beating hearts separated only by a few inches. Tony draws lazy patterns on his chest and Dean kisses him occasionally, tugs at his hair, bites his earlobe.

‘This might be the best date I’ve ever had.’

‘Well, it’s not over yet, Green Eyes.’

He pulls away, ‘You have _something else_ planned too?’

Tony grins, ‘Greasy takeout.’

‘Sounds perfect.’ 

They do more laps. Dean wonders why they didn’t take separate cars, but then he supposes that might’ve ruined the surprise. After a few hours, he lets Tony have a go, tries to be nonchalant about it but Tony senses the parental concern that Dean harbours and is reverent with her. 

It’s almost eight thirty by the time they leave. 

The two gleaming sports cars in the chute are carted off an hour later. 

They go to his dorm room, again. They do encounter a few students on the way up, but this being a weekend evening, they’re all too absorbed in their own night-outs. 

They have sex, but it’s slower this time. Tony notices that there is salt lining the windows and in an arch around the entryway so it is not disturbed by the door swinging. His attention is quickly taken away by a pair of lips.

He decides not to question him.

* * *

It becomes a thing. 

 

They go out somewhere at least once a week and have sex afterwards in Dean’s room. Tony eventually takes him to his, partly out of trust, partly because dorms are shitty. Afterwards, he just calls him over. It’s not a booty call because Tony is familiar enough with etiquette to know that booty calls don’t entail helping out callee with their homework. Dean never stays. It does not bother Tony. Nope. Not at all. 

Dean’s brother, Sam, calls him often. He always leaves the room to answer, until he doesn’t, until a Monday evening, and for that entire one-sided conversation Tony had stared at the text on his screen without taking in a single word, his heart racing. 

It’s Friday evening and they’re in Tony’s flat. He wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulder and kisses his neck, ‘C’mon, I wanna have sex.’ 

‘No, you need something to do until preliminary tests are done,’ Dean says, not looking away from his laptop, but the heavy voice betraying him. 

‘Same thing,’ He says, biting, and then resting his chin in the curve of his neck. The back of the chair digs into his chest, ‘Hm.’

He thought he was doing homework, going by the intent look on his face, but it’s a newspaper article, “‘Local Barista, 26, Allegedly Commits Suicide in Flat,’” What’s up with that?’ he asks, reading the rest of the article. According to it, a woman named Sharon Turner was found dead in her bathtub, her wrists sliced. The police did not suspect any foul play. 

Dean shuts his laptop before he can finish, ‘It’s nothing,’ He says, curving his neck up to kiss him. Tony doesn’t protest, quickly forgetting about the article. 

Dean pulls him down with urgency, and grabs his hair. His breath is minty, like his toothpaste, and warm. Tony’s surprised by his force, but eagerly melts into his touch, cradling his face. Dean breaks away, a line of spit still connects their lips, ‘Go to the couch.’ 

He joins him a moment later and doesn’t settle beside him as he suspects but spreads his knees and kneels between them, ‘Dean, you—’

‘I wanna do this for you,’ he says, head resting against his inner thighs, eyes sincere. Tony, already half-hard, nods. Dean smiles at him almost shyly then mouths at the bulge in his pants.

Tony groans and watches. Dean pulls him out, and licks the underside, before taking his tip and swallowing and his mouth is perfect. It’s wet and warm, and Tony can’t help but curl his back and grab his hair, ‘Love it when you—fuck—when you do that,’ he says, able to feel his throat twitching around him. 

Dean bobs his head and presses his tongue up and Tony comes. 

They kiss. He tastes his semen as they do. All of Dean’s coyness is gone and he flips him over, straddles his thighs, ‘What should I do with you..’ Tony’s still slightly disoriented from his orgasm and makes a senseless sound of encouragement. The weight on his body lifts and he protests but Dean returns a few moments later. There’s a pop of the lube bottle. Dean takes his time prepping him until Tony’s shirt is damp with sweat and and his cock is again hard and aching, ‘Fuck me already, you tease.’

 

Dean leans in until he feels his breath against his ear, ‘No.’ 

Tony groans into his couch but they turn excited when Dean rubs his prostate. 

When he finally fucks him, it’s a relief. The orgasm comes early but is drawn out, and makes his muscles spasm. Dean fucks him through it and comes minutes later. Tony rolls over on the couch, muscles loose and just breathes deeply as his boyfriend goes to toss out the condom. 

Boyfriend. 

Huh.

He makes Dean lay on top of him and nuzzles his hair. 

‘Had fun, babe?’

‘Mm,’

‘Best sex you ever had?’

‘Mm.. top three.’

Dean laughs. Tony feels his chest rumble as he does. There’s a distant beeping. 

‘I think your tests are done.’

‘Who cares?’ he says, and wraps an arm around him. 

Dean leaves an hour later. At night, he remembers the article and against his better judgement, looks it up. He vaguely remembers the headings of the other open tabs.. It tooks a little bit of searching but afterwards, he is reasonably certain he has a list of the deaths that Dean was investigating. They are/ 

Name of the victims

Sharon Turner.

Wilson Deloitte. 

Seth Hardington.

Timothy Adders. 

All in their twenties, all found dead in their bathtubs with their wrists cut, all living in Bridgegate, Plymouth.

All killed at regular intervals of seven years. 

‘You free this evening?’ Tony calls and asks around noon the next day, uncharacteristically. Usually, they make plans a few days in advance. 

Dean doesn’t respond for a few moments. ‘Uh, no, there’s—’ he says, ‘Class. Physics. Sorry,’ he says, laughing awkwardly. He’s a terrible liar. It’s Saturday. 

‘What about tomorrow?’

Again, a pause. ‘I’ll call and tell you when we can set up a date.’ And click.

Nope, not suspicious at all. 

Tony appens to stroll by the block where his dorm his on the way to his. As expected, the Impala is missing. He tries calling him twice, but both times his phone is switched off. 

He tells himself he’ll ask Dean about this when they meet the next time. 

He drives out to Plymouth because, hey, their next meeting can be determined by factors such as when Dean comes back or when he goes to see him. On the way, he calls and books a room at Mirbeau Inn and and Spa, which seems to be the closest decent living space to Bridgegate, and where Dean is certainly not staying. He uses his real name, because a.) it makes last minute reservations easier and b.) if shit goes down with Dean, the establishment will be cooperative. 

It’s around ten when he pulls up at the hotel. Tony’s packed light, just a few changes of clothes and his laptop. The staff is exceedingly helpful.

He showers, tosses the bag on his bed and goes to the lobby. The manager immediately directs all attention to him, ‘Anything I can do for you, sir?’

‘Yeah, where are the motels in this area?’

The smile doesn’t fade but he her brows furrow, ‘Sir, is there—’

‘I’d like a list of addresses and phone numbers with directions and nightly charges, thanks.’ 

There are seven establishments. Now, there was a chance that Dean hadn’t used his real name, so his best bet was the check the parking lots for his car. It takes Tony two hours to visit them all, and take a round of the premises. He decides against approaching the front desk because the description was too vague and if the manager recognised him, it would be a PR nightmare involving Dean and their relationship wasn’t quite at that stage yet. 

The Impala’s in none of them. 

‘Fuck,’ he says, sitting at the wheel. He calls him again. Switched off. Tony slams the steering wheel and presses his palms against his eyes. What if he’s got it all wrong? What if Dean isn’t here at all? What if he really had a class? What kind of paranoid boyfriend is he, going to another city on vague suspicions? He probably was sleeping. Maybe he turned his phone off because he was trying to study.

Or. 

Or what if he’s lying in a tub somewhere in bloodied water?

Tony drives in a random direction to get rid of that train of thought. It’s ridiculous. Dean’s only nineteen, has never set foot in Bridgegate before tonight (or maybe not even tonight) it is _ridiculous._

Wait. 

Tony turns around. Bridgegate. He could be at Bridgegate.

19, Bridgegate, Plymouth. It’s the house earlier shared between Sharon Turner and Maddie Sanders, where the former was found dead. But what holds Tony’s interest is the fact that in its driveway was parked, in full view, a black ‘67 chevy Impala.

As he touched the vehicle, his hands shook. He knocks on the door, and waits. He’s not expecting a response and he doesn’t get one, but when he tries the handle the door swings open, ‘You picked the lock.’ 

The house is dark, and cold. Too cold for the weather, even without the heating, ‘Dean!’ he says, suddenly wishing he had something heavy or sharp in his hands, ‘Dean, are you here?!’

He goes upstairs, checks every door. There’s no one to be found. He realises the third door is slightly ajar and pushes it. He can see a shadow in the tub from the curtain. 

Tony’s knees are shaking and there’s a cold steel ball rolling down his spine, and sweat on his palms despite the unseasonal chill. ‘Dean?’ he says, soft, and pulls back the curtain. 

It’s a rotting, staring corpse of a woman sitting upright. Her skin is hanging loosely or eaten away, exposing muscle and bone and Tony’s legs refuse to move. She raises her hand and reaches out. The bony fingers near him and as they do he feels a sharp pain in his wrist, and the warm dip of blood. 

Before they can make contact, there is a loud bang and the woman disappears with a wail. Tony falls to his knees on the tiles.


	3. Seven Year Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where origins are revealed and graves are desecrated.

He awakens to the slightly unsteady movement of the Impala, ‘You’re safe, you’re with me. Try not to move too much.’ 

His mouth feels dry, ‘What happened?’ Dean’s looking at him, concerned.

‘The cuts on your wrists aren’t too deep, but I’m taking you to clinic. I bandaged them as well as I could, but I still want a doc—‘ 

‘No!’ 

Dean raises an eyebrow. There’s a tugging pain on his forearms, and the damp bandages feel looser than they should, ‘You can’t. My father will be alerted and this,’ he raises his hands, ‘doesn’t really look good.’ 

‘Tony.’ 

‘You said they weren’t too deep.’ 

‘Yeah, but,’

‘Have you treated such injuries before?’ Tony asks, intently.

Dean swallows, his fingers tighten on the steering wheel but he stares pointedly ahead, ‘Yes. I have. But it will hurt.’ 

‘I trust you.’ 

Dean opens his mouth to say something but then clicks it shuts. He focuses on the road again and shrugs, ‘It’s your body.’ 

‘And my injuries were not what I was talking about when I asked.’ 

‘I know,’

Silence. ‘Deano?’

‘Hm?’

‘Did you carry me?’

He just smiles. It’s a little uneasy, but it’s there.

Dean drives him to his motel. Luckily, they don’t have to pass through the reception to enter. Tony tries very hard to keep his face passive but fails and Dean can’t help but feel self-conscious about his rooms, ‘Sit on the edge of the tub.’

‘This is going to sting,’ he says, before dabbing his injuries with alcohol. Tony hisses. He cleans the wounds on autopilot, and wraps them with gauze in silence.

Tony finally clears his throat, ‘You know I’ve got. Questions,’ 

‘Yeah,’ he says, smoothing over the surgical tape, ‘Right, well. That was a ghost. They exist. I shot it with rock salt. That is very effective.’

‘Good to know. Now tell me how you do,’

‘It’s the, uh,’ Dean looks away, then back into Tony’s confused eyes, ‘Family business.’ 

Tony looks confused and vaguely sceptical.

‘Yours is making nuclear weapons.’

‘Low, Winchester. And stop deflecting. So, what? You and your.. Uncle Bobby go around shooting ghosts with rock salt?’

‘If the situation calls for it, ‘course. And we take care of other things, too. But the best way of dealing with a ghost or a spirit is to salt and burn the remains. Which is what I’m going to do here.’ 

‘..yikes. Okay. Um. Sounds perfectly normal.’ 

‘I’m not involving you, I hope you know that.’ 

Tony gives him a pointed look, ‘How did you get into this, exactly?’

‘My father. He, uh, trained me and Sammy. Taught us the tricks of the trade,’ 

‘And you can’t make him take care of this, since you’re, you know, busy with college?’

Dean’s heart begins to race. He looks away, ‘He’s not.. Not in the picture.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

He immediately recovers, ‘It’s fine! It’s fine, I was fourteen, so.. It was a while ago. Sammy and I have been living with Bobby ever since. I mean, I moved for college but you know what I mean.’

Tony does. He decides to not push further. Dean gives him some painkillers which he swallows gratefully. A few minutes later, he stretches his fingers experimentally. The tugging is dulled, ‘So, who’s grave are we robbing?’

‘ _We_ are not doing anything. I’m driving you home in the morning.’

‘Dean, no.’

‘Tony, you’re injured and unfamiliar with the situation. You need to go back home.’

‘I can wait for you here! I’ll just pace around the flat, worried. Besides, just digging and salting, yeah? That doesn’t sound too dangerous.’ 

‘You’re not exactly in a shoveling state right now.’ 

Tony glares and pouts. Dean sighs, ‘Fine, I guess you can help me with research, but.. In the morning. You’re going to sleep now,’

‘We.’ 

‘Tony!’ 

‘No. Either we both go to sleep or none of us does.’

Dean taps his foot impatiently, and the raises his arms in stubborn surrender, ‘Fine! Fine, only because I know the ghost isn’t likely to strike again any time soon.’ 

Tony grins and takes off his shoes. Dean helps him with his jeans. The mattress is lumpy and room to cool, but he falls asleep in under an hour, which is uncharacteristically early for him. 

When he wakes up, he finds Dean hunched over a laptop and hears him eating chips. Tony gets off the bed slowly. ‘There’s breakfast on the table,’ Dean says, pointing to the brown bag of fast food, ‘Good morning.’

‘Morning,’ Tony says, a yawn stretching the syllables. He wonders what time it is. 

‘It’s eight am.’ 

He blinks at him, before going to the toilet. 

The burger was delicious and guilt inducing. This situation explains another thing he’s been wondering about, the mystery of Dean’s diet coexisting with his figure. He supposes that grave digging is a strenuous activity, ‘What am I looking for?’

‘Mysterious deaths or suicides of young women, before 1920’s.’

‘Why 1920’s? The ghost has been active only for the last twenty-eight years.’ 

‘Because that was when the urban expansion really kicked off, which is what I think triggered the killings. The hauntings display signs of a typical house haunting.. Except it’s spread over a large area. So I think the death happened when the entire block was one property, most likely farmland, which was before 1920’s.’ 

‘Gotcha.’ 

They go back to the 1890’s but fail to find anything fitting their criteria. Dean suggests going to the library, because many articles don’t get digitised. Tony takes one of his hoodies to hide his face.

They stay for three hours before Tony goes:

‘Dean, hey, look here.’ 

 

“

## 

` LOCAL WOMAN COMMITS SUICIDE `

``

``

` Plymouth: Mrs. Winona Laerin, daughter of Geoffery Mercier, ended her life on Thursday by slicing her own wrists. Her body was found in the early hours of Yesterday morning by her maid. `

`Her husband, Mr. Thomas Laerin, a wealthy farm owner, attributed her actions to “mental depression.” Mrs. Laerin was twenty-five years old, and will be succeeded by her husband and two daughters.” `

Dean presses his fingers against his lip, ‘They owned property near Bridgegate?’

‘Better, they owned bridgegate. And also, check this out.’ 

Tony pulled another article, this time a wedding announcement. It was between Mr. Thomas Laerin and Ms. Winona Mercier, dated 1919. 

‘Seven years before her death,’ Dean says.

‘Yep.’  
‘Looks like we’ve found our target.’ 

They then begin to look at obituaries, funeral announcements, but find nothing. Dean says that they should take a break for lunch and then hit the coroner’s office.

‘Me. Just me.’

‘But why?’

‘You’re recognisable, I need to pass off as someone who had family a few generations ago,’ he can tell Tony has accepted his logic, going by his half-hearted arguments. While Dean’s hunting for the graveyard, Tony goes to his own hotel room. Dean’s promises to call. 

Tony’s mobile rings around eight thirty. 

At nine thirty, he’s at the edge of a dug grave, banished there by Dean who is sweating away in the pit. Tony’s playing the part of a streetlamp, ‘So, um,’ he says, ‘How often would you.. Do this sort of thing, before uni?’

Dean grunts, ‘Uh, I dunno, every other week,’ pants, ‘Used to be a lot more common before Sammy and I started,’ the sound of dirt hitting dirt at a slightly higher altitude, ‘living with Bobby.’

‘Your dad was more active?’

‘Ah, you could say that,’

‘So, how often?’

‘All the time.’ 

Tony blinks. In the yellow light of the torch, he can make out dark patches of sweat on his back,, ‘All the time? How?’

‘We drove ‘round the country, huntin’ things. Stayed in motels.’

‘You were _homeless_?’

A pause. ‘Kinda.’’

‘Fuck. What about cash?’ A sick feeling rises in his gut. How could their father just haul his two sons around the country? ‘What about school?’

‘Credit card fraud. Hustling,’ Dean says, ‘Local public schools.’

Tony doesn’t know what to say. He hears a thud. Dean kicks the dirt and Tony moves the light to see newly revealed wood. There’s an undeserved sense of pride. He watches Dean strike the coffin and the wood splinters and breaks. Tony immediately turns to check if they have alerted anyone. Dean’s confident enough to do no such thing.

‘Help me up,’

That makes him turn. Dean grapples up with his help, careful about his injuries and both of them look down at skeletal remains of Mrs. Winona Laerin and bits of wood. 

Cold creeps up Tony’s spine. Dean nonchalantly grabs the salt canister and begins to liberally pour it over the desecrated grave. Snapping out of it, Tony takes the petrol and follows suit.

‘Ready?’ Dean asks, holding a lighter. Tony nods. Dean drops it in the pit. 

The coffin and corpse immediately go up in flames.

‘A nice family bonfire,’ Tony says, and Dead cackles. 

They drive out to the motel. Tony grabs his arm as he’s leaving, ‘pack your luggage, I’ll check out for you. We’re sleeping in an even bed tonight,’

Twenty minutes later, Tony’s driving them to Mirbeau Inn and Spa. His wrists still pinge occasionally, but mostly the painkillers are doing their job. 

Dean cocks an eyebrow when Tony pulls up his car, ‘My sugardaddy,’ he deadpans. Tony elbows him in the ribs, ‘My vacation partner.’ 

No one looks at them twice, despite the fact that both of them are sweaty and covered in graveyard dirt.

They take the elevator to the top floor. Tony shoulders Dean’s duffel and can tell his boyfriend feels guilty over that but doesn't care. 

Dean lets out a genuine impressed whistle at the sight of their room and Tony smirks, ‘I’m gonna take a bath,’ Dean says, after he has finished examining the contents of the fridge. The door shuts. Tony hears running water, ‘And you’re joining me!’ 

‘Gladly!’’ 

They have to draw it up twice. The first time for actual cleaning, and the second time to get each other off as many times as they can. They fall asleep the second they hit the pillows. 

Both of them stir awake around nine thirty am, past buffet timings. Tony orders a full breakfast while Dean lounges on a chair wearing a robe, talking to Sam. These are what Sunday mornings are supposed to feel like, he decides quietly. 

Dean trailes off in the middle of a sentence and his eyes seize Tony’s. He cocks an eyebrow, Tony gapes like a fish for a few moments before Dean shrugs with a smile. He’s about to resume his conversation when Tony stretches his unsure arm and Dean confidently hands him his mobile. The man walks up behind him and leans on his shoulder, ‘He can be a bit of a fanboy,’ Dean whispers in his ear, ‘And we did not go hunting.’ 

Tony frowns up at him, before saying, ‘Hello.’

‘Dean? Dean! Wait, you’re not..’

He laughs, ‘No, no, I am not,’ dear god, he’s talking to a teenager, he should not be this nervous. Sam’s voice is a little deeper than he expected, but unconfident about its frequency. He guesses its pitch has dropped recently.

‘Who are you then?’ Suspicious.

‘His boyfriend,’

A pause. A stretched pause. ‘Oh my _god_ , he wasn’t lying,’

‘My name’s Tony,’ 

‘Hi, Tony! I’m Sam! Though you must know that by now… I can’t believe Dean has a boyfriend,’

‘Why?’

‘He’s not really the relationship type,’ Sam says, ‘But I guess you’re the exception.’ 

‘Yeah, I hope so. He talks a lot about you, you know?’

‘Yeah, I know. He’s great. He talks about you a lot too. But he never tells me your name, so I assumed he was just doing it to shut me up,’

‘I promise he wasn’t,’ There’s a knock on the door, ‘Gotta go now, Sam.’ 

Handing over the phone is such a relief. By the time everything is settled, Dean’s hung up.

They eat the meal in relative silence. Dean stretches his leg to brush against his thigh, and settles his heel on his knee. He goes on eating his pancakes, making lewd noises. Tony chews on his toast and stares at him, sharply aware of the warm weight on his leg. 

Dean wants to go swimming. Tony drinks mimosas on the tiles, wearing a hoodie, because he doesn’t want to get his bandages wet. Or noticed. Dean does make a point to come out of the water, golden and wet, and stretch his muscles right before his face every fifteen minutes. 

They have sex before lunch. They eat in a restaurant nearby, Dean’s choice. Dinner is in an Italian restaurant of Tony’s choosing.

They leave Monday morning.

The windows are rolled down, wind whipping Dean’s hair, who has donned Tony’s sunglasses. He looks at him, at the angle sunlight hits him and the sharp angle his jawline makes and takes a photo. 

‘Show me,’ Dean says, groping for his phone. Tony laughs before handing it over.

‘Damn, you’re a good photographer,’ 

‘I have a stunning model,’

Dean takes the shades off. His eyes are soft, ‘Take one of both of us,’

Tony does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Also, updates are going to be really erratic, because my life is kind of busy right now, but I do have the whole thing plotted out (sorta). Please comment.
> 
> Rant with me about shipping rare and/or ridiculous ships at my tumblr: bauliya.tumblr.com


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